Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Hey, Doc. Hey, Jesse,” Lundquist said, standing in the hallway just outside the bedroom. “Is it all right if I come in?”

Jesse saw echoes of Suit in Lundquist. A tall, sturdily built man with reddish hair, warm blue eyes, and a boyish aw-shucks smile, Brian Lundquist seemed as if he would have been right at home showing his prize pig at the Minnesota State Fair. Similarities in appearance to Suit notwithstanding, Jesse knew Lundquist to be an excellent detective, a cops’ cop. You didn’t rise to the rank of detective lieutenant because you were unfailingly polite or friendly. And they didn’t make you acting head of Homicide because you were somebody’s pal.

“Why don’t you fellas talk somewhere else while I finish up in here?”

Jesse nodded to Lundquist that he was coming out.

“Okay, Doc. Lundquist and I will be downstairs if you need us.”

When Jesse stepped out of the bedroom, he extended his right hand to the detective.

“My forensics unit’s outside, Jesse. All I’m waiting on is your say-so.”

“Get ’em in here.”

After Lundquist had given the go-ahead, Jesse detailed Tamara Elkin’s preliminary findings. He explained that he thought the old woman’s death didn’t seem, at least on the surface, to be a purposeful act. Lundquist kept his thoughts to himself as they went down to the basement to talk the crime scene over with Peter Perkins, and Perkins got right to it.

“They had her tied up to this lally column with duct tape,” he said, pointing at the tape still stuck to the metal pole. “I also think she probably died here.” He pointed at stains on the slab at the base of the pole and held up an evidence bag containing the sock used to gag Maude Cain. “As to the mess upstairs... I don’t know.” He held up another evidence bag, this one containing the strip of tape used to cover the old woman’s mouth. “Looks like there’s blood on this, too.”

Jesse spoke up. “ME says there’s tape residue on the vic’s mouth and that her lip was split. All right, Peter, the state Forensics Unit is here. Go upstairs and fill them in. Lend them a hand.”

When Perkins reached the top of the stairs, Lundquist asked the question Jesse knew was coming: “What do you think went on here? The upstairs looks like a demolition team got hold of it, and it doesn’t look any better down here.”

Although Jesse knew homicide detectives were supposed to follow the evidence, it didn’t mean their brains didn’t work overtime once they got a good look at the crime scene. He had learned the hard way about the danger of falling in love with any single scenario before the evidence was in. Even then, he had seen colleagues ignore the facts in favor of their predetermined scenarios. He’d done it himself, but experience had also taught him not to completely ignore his gut. He looked around at the mess that was the basement. He remembered his first thought at seeing the chaos and blood upstairs.

“You’ve seen the house, how it was torn apart? The person or persons that did this were looking for something and they didn’t know where to look for it. It takes a long time to go through a house like this, and they had to keep the Cain woman out of their hair while they searched. Maybe they got a little rough with her to see if she knew where it was before tearing the walls apart. My guess is the vic’s death was, if not exactly an accident, unanticipated. Same as the delivery guy showing up.”

“But neither thing stopped these perps from ripping the place apart.”

“What’s that tell you?”

“That whatever they were looking for is worth a lot of money.”

“At least they think it—”

Before Jesse could finish, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the screen and excused himself.

“What is it, Molly?”

“The mayor’s car is coming up the street.”

“I’m heading out.”

“Trouble?” Lundquist asked, as Jesse moved to the stairs.

“Uh-huh.”

“The press?”

“Worse.”

Lundquist laughed a joyless little laugh. “Only thing worse is a politician.”

Jesse laughed, too. “You should have been a detective.”

13

When he was sure Hump was well out of the room, King slipped the oddly shaped safety-deposit box key out of his rear pocket and ran his thumb over it again and again. The ridges of his thumbprint caught on the edges of the brittle Scotch tape holding the key in place against the yellowed index card. The key was tarnished with time and disuse, but it looked like a piece of heaven to him. A piece of heaven shaped like a pot of gold, blond hookers, and a Porsche. He’d had hookers before, all kinds, but never a Porsche. He’d always dreamed of having a Porsche. He had spent endless hours staring up at the photos of 911s and Caymans taped to his cell wall, imagining what it would feel like behind the wheel, the wind whipping his hair. His hair was mostly gone now. The dream remained.